Freaky Friday

This Friday shall be Freaky indeed. I've been informed that I'll have a houseguest for the weekend and I am very, very, very much looking forward to it. Actually it's four days, so I've taken Monday and Tuesday off work in anticipation of a four-day bacchanalia. A four day hedonistic romp of sensual pleasure and practices banned in several southern states.

I imagine as I write this that my guest, whom I'll call Astarte (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Astarte), is on her way to a half day of work and then on to the airport. I'm already counting the hours until 5pm central time and my libido is stirring, making concentration on work difficult and standing up occasionally embarrassing. And I'm smiling.

After work it's on to the store for....supplies....and food. I'll be preparing a home-made minestrone with fresh garlic bread, buying several bottles of wine (I just found a new one I like last night, a Shiraz/Cabernet/Monastrell from Spain called Mad Dogs & Englishmen..very full & rich) and chocolate. Must have chocolate with the wine for dessert.

I must go now, I'm finding it hard to type the next line. I'll be back next Wednesday, spent, satiated and probably hung-over. And I'll still be smiling.


M. PotPie

Kiss Me On My Ass

An open letter to my co-workers:

You may now kiss me on my ass. You lazy, boring, bad attituted (yeah, I made up a word, so what?) shallow, complaining-ass slobs can pucker right up and plant one on my tuchas.

If you hate your job so much, why don't you do me a favor and quit? If you have all this time to sit at my desk and tell me how bad things are, maybe you should spend five minutes trying to make it better. No? Well then fuck off, I have work to do.

Oh, this letter doesn't apply to the girl who called me a dumb-ass the other day when I shredded my knuckles in the bowels of the copier. You I still love from a distance. You were in the shower with me this morning, but you didn't know it. And you were wearing your glasses.


M. PotPie

What a horrible day. Yesterday was my personal Alamo. I was assaulted all day long by horrible credit and sad situations. Tears were shed, fists were made and pleas were given from between clenched teeth.

And all I could say was "No, I'm sorry, I can't approve that. I'm sorry."

The worst of the day went like this:

C.U. Member at my desk: "Hi there, I have a situation and I need your help."

Me: "Well, tell me about it and I'll do anything I can to help you out." (my job is half loan underwriting, half counselor)

C.U. Member: "It's like this: My wife has cancer and is just beginning treatment. She'll be out of work for at least six months, so our income is cut in half, not to mention all the unpaid time off I'm taking to be with her. We have two loans with you guys that we can't pay...we just can't afford it. Is there any way you can defer the payments for six months?"

Me: "Well....no. I can't defer them for six months, our auditors would have my ass. But what I can do is defer them for two months and after that refinance them into one loan, extend the term and cut your payment in half. Then I can schedule your first payment for February, so you'll have November, December and January with no payment at all. Would that work?"

C.U. Member: "Yes. That would be great, thank you. Thank you so much!"

Ok, so at the moment I'm feeling pretty good about myself. At the moment. Literally fifteen minutes later he's back in my office.

C.U. Member: "By the way, is there any way you can increase the limit on my credit card by $5,000? I need to go shopping and have no money."

Me: Silence for a moment, and then "No. I can't do that."

C.U. Member: "Well...why not? I have A+ credit (which is true, he does) and have never missed a payment with you or anyone else (true again)."

Me: Squirming in my chair "Yes, that's true, but you've just told me that you can't pay the bills you have, and now you want me to increase your limit, thereby raising your payment on your credit card."

C.U. Member: Getting angry now "Yes. I don't see a problem here, I don't understand. What do you expect me to do, starve?"

I'll spare you the rest, but suffice to say he left angry, cursing me, and I felt like a complete asshole for turning him away in his time of need.

Oh, I also told a woman getting divorced that she couldn't keep her house because she can't afford it, turned a guy down for a loan for an engagement ring and turned a couple down for a loan for their dream vacation.

Yesterday sucked. So I went home and drank 'till I passed out. And somehow mustered the courage to come back to work today.


M. PotPie

There are times in your life when you have to make important decisions that have ramifications not only for you, but for everyone around you. They may not be life-or-death kinds of decisions, or even grievous-bodily-injury kinds of decisions, but certainly they can easily ruin your day. Or someone else's. Allow me to offer an example:

You work in an office, an enclosed space with poor circulation and questionable cleanliness. Your desk is located in the middle, the exact middle of a row of cubes. Everything you do, say or emit is sensed in some way by everyone surrounding you, whether they like it or not. In your own small way you are a sort of dictator, forcing yourself on unwilling subjects and leaving them to deal with the aftermath of your decisions.

Today, you have decided to wear cologne. A lot of cologne. So much, in fact, that you could be considered a bio-hazard and would not be allowed in a hospital. Plants wilt when you come near. Innocent children choke and tell their mothers, crying "Mommy, my nose hurts!" Dogs whine and run, tails between their legs, retching. But your co-workers? They are forced to endure, to go on, to suffer needlessly. Forced to refrain from commenting lest they hurt your feelings and cause strife in the close-knit office community. You assault them with your scent, your stench, your 'Odeur des mille décès'...and you do not care or even notice.

Murder is being considered. Or a forced bath. Influential leaders in the office are lobbying for you to be given an extra day of vacation, just for today. People are willingly sacrificing days off because you reek.

Please go away. Please. I am dying.......


M. PotPie

It's Monday & I'm Bleeding

It's true. There was a paper jam in the only working copier in the building. Ok, it's a small building, and there's only two, but damn it we needed copies and I'm the man to fix it! I'm also the man that jammed it, but I believe in taking responsibility for my own actions.

Being the reasonably intelligent man that I am I followed the instructions and the blinking red lights on the copier.

"Open Flap A" (or some such nonsense) Open.
"Check for paper" Paper. Yep. Check.
"Remove paper" Ok.

Ok.

Ok.

Shit. This paper is jammed. Won't budge. I tug harder. The copier moves, the paper does not. I can feel the anger rising and I'm feeling like Mr. Furious from Mystery Men (funny movie. rent it.). In my rage I tug too hard and the paper rips. My hand flies backward and three knuckles on my right hand smash against some sort of protrusion in the copier and come out gashed and bleeding. Oh joy!

I'm staring stupidly at my torn and bleeding knuckles. A co-worker wanders by, looks at the copier, looks at my hand, smiles at me and says "Dumb-ass." I instantly fall in love with her. But before I can begin my wooing of said maiden I must repair the damage to my digits. Anybody have a band-aid...or three?

Of course in a perfect world a nice young lady would offer to lick my knuckles clean...but we all know this world is not perfect.

Oh, by the way, I managed to fix the paper jam.
But forgot to make my copies.
Back to the front!


M. PotPie

This Job is Gonna Make Me Fat

It is. I should give you some background first. I work at a smaller credit union, we have roughly 25 employees. 22 of them are women. I'd say three of us are men, but one of the males is an ex-priest, so I'm not really sure if he counts. I get my exercise every day by swimming in a sea of estrogen..some days I only tread water.

So there you have it. Women everywhere (though truth be told, not much scenery) Anyway, there's always some sort of food around. Cookies, donuts, pies, brownies....it's always dessert of some sort or another, and almost always chocolate. I do have somewhat of a weakness for chocolate so I'm constantly grazing. I weighed myself the other day (there's actually a medical scale downstairs) and found, to my horror, that I'm up to 172 pounds. I'm 5'10", so 172 is by no means fat, but I was 164 when I started working here roughly one year ago.

Fine, maybe I'm overreacting, it's only 8 pounds, right?

Wait a minute. I just realized something.

Oh shit. I'm turning into a woman.

I didn't realize they had this kind of power....estrogen must spread through the air, like the flu or something. I have to go. I have to measure my penis and make sure it isn't shrinking.

A Wisconsin Institution

I'd like to start today off by clarifying a thing or two. One, while I do live in Wisconsin, I'm not originally from here. Not that it would be a bad thing if I were, but I'm not. I grew up in the lovely city of Detroit, Michigan just off Eight Mile Rd. Yes, like the Eminem movie. I, however, never got into rap and never worked in the auto industry. I moved from Detroit to Wisconsin to get into radio, which I did. That's a story for another time. So I'm here now, with a ten year stint in Minneapolis in-between stays in beer & cheese land.

The Wisconsin institution I'm referring to is the bratwurst. Anywhere else in the country it's just a sausage, a meat-stuffed bit of intestine...or whatever it is they use as sausage casing. In Wisconsin, however, it's a way of life. You won't find hot dogs on the grills here, you'll find brats, along with a thousand different ways to cook them. The most popular way by far is to first slow-cook them in beer, grill them, and then put them back in a mixture of beer and sauerkraut. This, my friends, is the Beer Brat.

In my city-life-fueled ignorance I thumbed my nose at the beer brat when I first moved here, to the country. I have since learned to love the brat in it's many incarnations, but the beer brat remains my favorite. A toasted bun, grilled beer brat covered in onions with a bit of mustard...and a cold beer of course (Miller is the preferred brand, or another good Wisconsin Beer...hey, there's another post altogether!), makes for a wonderful meal, especially if you happen to be tailgating. I don't know that tailgating was invented here, but rest assured that the folks here have perfected it. At both Brewer and Packer games I've seen folks that came just to tailgate, that didn't even have a ticket to the game (and if you know anything about the Packers you know it's impossible to get tickets anyway). They bring free-standing awnings, couches (no joke) chairs, tv's with satellite dishes (again, no joke) kegs of beer, massive barbeques, smokers and even their own port-a-potties. It's a beautiful thing.

But back to the brats...

If you ever find yourself in Wisconsin, whether on purpose or by accident, let me know. If you're anywhere near Waupun (such as Milwaukee or Madison...or Oshkosh) I'd be happy to intoduce you to this wonderful bit of America's Dairyland. And perhaps I can introduce you another Wisconsin institution, the supper club. We'll have fried fish, prime rib and old-fashioneds.


M. PotPie

Good Day

So, if you've read my profile you know that I'm a loan officer for a credit union. If you haven't read it, well, now you know.

It's a fascinating job sometimes. In this age of identity theft, internet bill-pay and banking, people are being warned over and over again to never give out personal information. Well, I can't do my job unless people give me literally every scrap of personal information. Name, address, telephone numbers, birth date, income, account numbers, social security numbers...you name it.

And people willingly hand it over to me. A complete stranger. I find that fascinating.

Anyway, my original intent for this post was to share a list of the worst reasons I've ever been given as to why people want money. I've been doing this job in one form or another for the last five years at four different companies (Yeah, I'm a bit of a gypsy that way) so I've heard some pretty good ones.

1) I need the money to pay my bills. This has to be the worst ever. Seriously, if you can't pay the bills you have now, what makes you think you can handle another one?

2) I'm declaring bankruptcy and need to pay my attorney and the court costs. Um...riiigghhttt.

3) I need to buy groceries.

4) I need to pay my gambling debts.

5) I only need the money for a few days. After that I'm driving the car to Florida and never coming back.

6) I have a date and need $65 for an electric razor.

7) I need a loan to make my payment on the other loan I have with you.

8) I need enough money for my first month's rent and security deposit.

9) Well, I need it for bail money. Not for me, for my friend, and the loan needs to be in his name.

10) It's personal, I can't tell you. (after telling her I have to know otherwise there's no way I can give it to her) Fine. I'm getting a nose-job, ok?

I'm sure there are more, but these are the worst I can think of at the moment. And today is a new day, so perhaps I'll have more by the end of the day.

Tuesday in Bed

Ok, not really. I'm at work. But I wanted to stay in bed and eat chinese, either food or a woman.

So when I got to work today there was a guy passed out in his car in the middle of the parking lot. The car was running and the windows were open. I thought at first he was maybe waiting for the drive-through to open and just didn't notice that it had, but he wasn't moving at all. I walked in the building, shuffled to my cube and turned on my computer. Then I changed my voice-mail for the day, got some coffee and looked out the front door into the parking lot.

Still there.

At this point I figured I had two choices. One, I could go out there and wake him up. Two, I could call the cops and make them do it. On the one hand, maybe he's dead and not asleep, or maybe he had a stroke, or more likely he's drunk as hell and passed out, in which case the last thing I want to do is wake him up and let him drive off.

So I went for two and called the cops. They sent a guy out. The cop parked his car, made a few notes and approached the perpetrator, hand on his gun. I thought that to be a little excessive, but perhaps they're trained to do it that way.

"Whenever approaching a sleeping man, put your hand on your pistol so that when he wakes up he's confronted with a violent image. It confuses the perpetrator and makes you feel special."

Anyway he walks up to the car and says something. (I can't hear what he was saying...several co-workers and I were watching from the window.) The man does not respond. The cop knocks on the window. The man does not respond. My co-workers are now conjecturing on what's wrong. I'm thinking of taking bets. Drunk is clearly the majority opinion, currently on the board at 2/1. We also have just sleeping at 4/1, medical emergency at 8/1 and dead at 20/1.

We have action! The man responds and the cop is clearly asking him to get out of the car. The man is rubbing his eyes and looks unsteady on his feet. The drunk bettors are high-fiving and counting their money, but their odds are now at 3/2. Just sleeping moves to 5/1, medical emergency is now 50/1 and dead has gone to 99/1. Wait...the sobriety test is in progress....and he passes! Just sleeping wins it at 5/1, paying good money!

And after that he went through the drive-through to get a cash advance on his credit card of $75. I would have missed this had I stayed in bed.

Ladies?

I’m wondering if there’s a woman alive that possesses all of the following qualities:

1) Independence. This is an absolute must. No hangers-on, no coat-tail riders, no clingers. Please, please, please have a life outside of me and whatever relationship we have.

2) Sense of humor. Another absolute must. If you can’t make me laugh, or don’t get my jokes, get out.

3) Individuality. Comparable to independence, but different. Be yourself. Who gives a shit what other people think about you? If you’re comfortable in your own skin your hotness rating goes wayyyyyyy up.

4) Confidence. Goes without saying.

5) Sex drive. Must be active, experimental and passionate. Cold fish and prudes….yeah, buh-bye.

6) Spirituality. NOT religion. I can’t handle people who believe in a conscious and omnipotent deity and believe said deity approves of their religion and theirs only. God, if it exists in that fashion, would not choose sides.

7) Curves. Gotta have ‘em. No Kate Moss types, thankyouverymuch. A few extra pounds in the right spots are good with me.


Wow. The list is shorter than I thought. So…are there any women out there like this?
I’m disappointed. I thought I was much pickier than this.

Take Me Down

Take me, take me, take me down,
Down deep where I don’t want to look,
Afraid of what I might see, what I might be
Fangs instead of a smile, ugly, yellow and cracked.

Take me, take me, take me down,
Down deep where I don’t want to look,
Afraid of what you might see, who I might be,
A clown instead of a prince, a painted, laughing fool.

But yeah I’ll be anything you want me to be
And yeah I’ll say anything you want to hear
And yeah if you asked me I’d give it to you
Just don’t ask me to be me.

Take me, take me, take me down,
Down deep where I don’t want to look,
Afraid of what I might see, what I might be,
Empty and void, dark and cold, maybe nothing at all.

But yeah I’d be anything you want me to be
And yeah I’ll say anything you want to hear
And yeah if you asked me I’d give it to you
Just don’t ask me to be me.

Good Girls Need Not Apply

Give me a woman with long, dark hair
Fiery eyes and a streak of mean.

Good girls need not apply.

Give me a raunchy laugh and a razor wit,
Curves, painted nails and attitude.

Good girls need not apply.

I want a woman like that who won't take my shit
Throws it right back in my face and makes me like it
Use me, abuse me, treat me cruel
I'll tell you I don't like it you'll call me a fool

Good girls need not apply.

I Really Should Do My Laundry

Yes, I probably should. But I have this perverse desire to see if I can wear every article of clothing I own until it's obviously in need of washing. I'm already out of socks and underwear, so I've been going commando for a few days and have taken to wearing my socks inside out, hoping nobody notices. So far, so good, no comments. But you can't hear what people say behind your back. I'll run out of pants next. The pants are the major hurdle. I can't wear jeans and such to work, and most of my work pants (or slacks, if you prefer. I don't, and you're a freak if you do) are dry-clean only and don't take to ironing very well. Shirts I'm ok on. I have lots of those. I'm not counting shoes.

I'm not sure if this desire comes from my simply being lazy and not enjoying the folding aspect of laundry, or if I'm motivated by the altruistic aspect of a science experiment that could benefit bachelors everywhere. If I can prove, by example and documentation, that it is possible to go several weeks without doing laundry I could save people both time and money. That's a good thing, is it not? Think of the things that could be accomplished if you didn't have to waste two hours doing laundry...like drinking another beer or saving a small child trapped in a well...

Either way it's an experiment in progress.


M. PotPie

Another Saturday at Work

This is like a curse
My personal menstruation
Saturday at work

A customer? Shit!
How dare they interrupt me!
I'm playing FreeCell!

I'm bored and horny
Internet porn is calling
Stupid firewall!

I could do some work
But really, I know I won't
I'd rather eat glass.

My dog sleeps at home
While I'm stuck working today
I know he's laughing.

Soon I'll have to poop.
I hope it's really stinky.
I won't light a match.

"Hello, God, are you there? It's me, Dubya."

Apparently Dubya has a direct link to god. According to the following story, god told him to invade Iraq & Afghanistan, and told him to create a Palestinian state.

http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/world/americas/4317498.stm

The White House, of course, denies it.

If I look in a mirror
If I look behind my eyes
I see a man staring back at me
With an empty spot in his brain
Where he’s ripped out your memory.

It grew there like a cancer
It grew and festered and ate
It swelled black and bilious, never happy
And it tried to eat the rest of my brain
So I killed it with a do-it-yourself lobotomy.

Now that it’s gone I can see
Now that it’s gone I think I’m free
But there’s something missing, something I miss
And I’m looking to fill it and rebuild my brain
So maybe you can help me, I think I can tell if you give me a kiss…


M. PotPie

No, I'm not Bruce Willis

Ok, what the fuck? Sure, I may bear a passing resemblance to the aforementioned Mr. Willis, but come on! I weigh somwhere around 50-60 pounds less than him (at least...he keeps getting fatter, I think) and I think he's about 10 years older than I.

So why do people keep asking me if I'm him?

Really, I should be taking advantage of this, but unfortunately I haven't been asked this question by any attractive young women with self-esteem issues. It's mostly guys at bars, and I don't swing that way, thankyouverymuch. This monkey swings for the ladies and only the ladies.

I wonder if there's a way I could make money off this...maybe charging a small fee to cut the ribbon at small-town mall openings? Any ideas would be appreciated.

In the meantime I'll be practicing saying "Yippee-ka-yey motherfucker!"